Page 17 of Goalie and the Girl Next Door (Love in Maple Falls #5)

MARCY

M y frown has nothing to do with what Clément just said, not even because Carson and Bailey just plowed through like a comedy duo.

This frown is a deep disappointment with myself. I just let myself almost kiss a hockey player. A suave French hockey player who has all the moves to get me alone and under the stars.

Three strikes. He’s got to be OUT.

I take a mini step back and pretend I’m adjusting my bracelet. I’m really adjusting my expectations.

How did that happen?

I know better. I wrote the rulebook. I filed it in triplicate. It says: no more charming athletes, no more emotional detours, no more getting swept up in temporary chemistry disguised as fate.

And yet… I was starting to believe he was opening up to me.

I glance over at him, prepared to find him basking in his own romantic prowess, but he’s not. He’s weirdly still .

His brow is faintly damp, like maybe he’s nervous or maybe someone opened a vent too close to the thermostat. His jaw is set, no smirk. No playful gleam.

He’s just quiet.

It throws me.

This is a man who winked at a cow and made it seem normal. He navigates social media like an adored celebrity.

But now he looks like someone waiting to be called into a meeting where he already knows he’s getting fired.

“You okay?”

He looks over, startled, like I caught him mid-thought. “Me? Oui , of course.”

He sounds less sure than usual.

I look away, close my eyes, and breathe in the cool autumn air. Because if I don’t, I’ll forget who I am, what I’m doing, and why kissing a hockey player with an accent and emotional depth is a very, very bad idea.

“I should…” I gesture vaguely toward the arena. “I should check in with Ms. Thompkins. You know, make sure I’ve been properly seen before I disappear like a social delinquent.”

Clément blinks, still a little glassy-eyed. “You’re leaving?”

“I told Angel I’d finish cross-checking receipts tonight. There’s this whole question about goat vaccinations versus hay costs and whether both count as line-item livestock care…” His expression softens, but I keep going. “Anyway. You get it. For the kids. Happy Horizons doesn’t run itself.”

I try for a smile, but I suspect I look more guilty than anything else.

He nods slowly, and then his mouth opens and closes with nothing but air and maybe a vowel.

Silence falls, heavy with all the things we’re both not saying .

“Clément!” Angel’s voice rings out, warm and delighted, just before she barrels into view with the energy of a comet. Scotty follows at a slower pace, favoring his left side.

Clément straightens, and his whole face brightens in that effortless way of his. He hugs Angel tightly, then turns to Scotty and throws his arms around him, too.

Scotty grunts. “Careful, Rivière. I’m too old for these linebacker hugs.”

Clément immediately pulls back. “ Oh la la , I forgot. Your back?—”

“It’s fine. Mostly.” Scotty winces. “Unless you plan on tackling me again. Then I’m dead.”

“I will resist,” Clément says solemnly, hands up like he’s promising not to commit a crime. “But only because I like you.”

Angel beams. “You boys are ridiculous.”

One thing I’ve learned about Angel and Scotty, they have the combined subtlety of a marching band. They are also—unfortunately—hopeless romantics.

I’ve got to get out of here while I can.

“I really have to go.” I glance toward the arena again, already half-pivoting.

“Just a few more minutes—” Angel starts.

“You know how I am. Quiet exit, no fanfare. I just need to find Ms. Thompkins, thank her for the invite, and head home.”

Clément reaches out and brushes my arm. “Will you be at the game?” he asks, his voice soft and unsure.

Find an excuse, find an excuse. “The first one?”

He nods. “Next week. It’s at home.”

I open my mouth, intending to speak some vague diplomatic phrase about wishing them luck, but Angel cuts in.

“Of course she’s going,” she says. “With everything the Ice Breakers are doing to support Maple Falls during… well, all of this.” She waves her hand absentmindedly in the direction of town hall. “She would want to be there.”

Clément watches me with something achingly hopeful in his expression.

I flash a quick, uncomfortable smile, trying not to notice the joy that lights up his stupidly handsome face when I say, “Of course. Of course I’ll be there.”

Game day. The arena looms in front of me with a whole different vibe from the inaugural bash just a few days ago.

It’s the embodiment of an overzealous sports metaphor. Vendors shout about snacks. Kids in tiny jerseys dart between legs, half of them holding foam fingers bigger than their actual limbs.

It’s a spectacle.

I stand just outside the gates, close enough to feel the cold air wafting from the open doors. I could still turn around. I should turn around. There are at least six thousand things that could go wrong in there:

I could see him.

I could not see him and be disappointed.

I could panic and drop my popcorn on someone’s lap.

I could remember too much about my complicated past with hockey.

I could simply feel too much.

I shift from foot to foot, checking the time. No one would notice if I disappeared. I could blame it on work. Or a goat emergency .

I turn to leave, tugging my coat tighter around me. But then?—

His face.

The way his voice dipped when he talked about not liking the noise and fanfare. The way he touched my arm.

I close my eyes and sigh. Loudly.

I’m going to this game.

I spin on my heel to go back—and collide directly into a solid shoulder.

“Oh!” I look up.

Bailey Porter grins at me, one hand grasping her purse. “Whoa there. Dramatic entrance?”

“Something like that.”

She glances at my expression, then tilts her head. “You okay?”

“Yeah. I just have a complicated relationship with hockey arenas.”

She studies me for a second, then smiles like she understands more than she’s letting on. “Want me to walk you in?”

I hesitate. Then nod once. “Please.”

We fall into step together.

“I don’t know what it is about Maple Falls,” I mutter, half to myself. “It’s like anyone who dares come through, even if just briefly, is so friendly. ”

Bailey chuckles. “It’s Maple Falls. We either hug you or feed you until you give in.”

I exhale a laugh. “We have got to find a way to keep Maple Falls… well, Maple Falls.”

Bailey shows me to the alley I enter for my seat and I settle in with all the grace of someone being sentenced to a mild but deeply personal form of torture.

It’s a hive of humans high on face paint and soft pretzels. Everywhere I look, someone’s shouting, waving, or wearing flashing hats. My stomach twists, tight and stubborn, and I can’t tell if it’s because of the noise, the crowd, or the fact that I’m here at all.

This is my second ever actual game, and I remember too well how the first one went.

And— I hate admitting this part —the atmosphere is also kind of fantastic.

There’s a murmur as the lights dim slightly. A voice booms from the overhead speakers, thick with performance energy.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the inaugural home game of your team, the Maple Falls Ice Breakers!”

The crowd erupts. People leap from their seats. Kids scream. Someone behind me blows a horn so aggressively I feel it in my spine.

“And now,” the MC says, riding the energy, “please welcome tonight’s visiting team—the Great Lakes Vikings!”

There are some cheers and a few obligatory boos. A kid a couple rows down yells, “Go home, horn heads!” and his mom gives him a halfhearted “shhh.”

The lights flash again.

“And now… the moment you’ve all been waiting for…” The crowd surges to its feet. “Introducing your Maple Falls Ice Breakers!”

The noise is deafening. Thunderous. Absolutely unhinged.

Spotlights whip across the ice as the players skate out one by one, called by name.

“Jamie Hayes, your Ice Breakers captain!”

If the roof had any screws left in it, they’re gone now.

A man skates out, powerful and confident, with a jawline that looks like it’s never lost a fight. The name sounds vaguely familiar. Maybe he was in some of the promotional photos. Or maybe the sheer volume around me is making everything stick.

The announcer keeps going.

“Cade Lennox!”

“Asher Tremblay!”

“Weston Smith!”

“Lucian Lowe!”

“Carson Crane!”

The announcer continues. People are standing, waving flags, throwing up peace signs, fist-pumping. Confetti is falling from somewhere. Or maybe I’m imagining it. I’m not totally convinced I haven’t disassociated.

And still… no sign of Clément.

Is he even playing?

I straighten my skirt for the fifth time. It wasn’t even wrinkled to begin with. My fingers go to my hair. Tuck behind one ear. Then the other. Again. The same strands.

I tell myself I’m just warm. Or over-caffeinated.

Then—

“And in goal tonight, wearing number ninety-five… Clément Rivière!”

The crowd loses it again.

“Hey Frenchie, stop those pucks!” a man booms and a woman screeches, “ Je t’aime , Frenchie!”

My French is not awesome, but even I know what that means.

Quite suddenly, I realize I’m not the only one who’s noticed the Frenchman with the ridiculous charm.

I swallow hard and watch as he skates into the light.